


The Crow and the Dove

by made_of_lions_and_wolves333



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: AU, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Mythology - Freeform, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 09:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14746509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/made_of_lions_and_wolves333/pseuds/made_of_lions_and_wolves333
Summary: Is this a sin, if Heaven is forever watching?[Sebastian/Elizabeth; dark short story]





	The Crow and the Dove

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing of course. All rights to go Yana. 
> 
> (Originally posted on FF.net.)

 

Maidens usually wait in meadows for the men they love. Or at best, they wait in a little summer garden while they busy themselves with humming songs and weaving flowers into their curls. They wait so long for that one special prince, the one who will come riding in on a tall white horse, and then hopefully they'll have no more worries. All hardships fade away as the beautiful couple flee together towards the dying sun.

Well, it so happens, Elizabeth is waiting too.

But she's not in a meadow, nor her family's back garden.

Instead she waits here, in the town’s darkened cemetery, only lit up slightly by the full moon above.

She thinks it's more fitting for them. It's where the crows like to gather. Graves and grass and dust.

 

 

**.o0o.**

 

 

_It was her favorite time of the week. It was just her and Edward alone at home, and they lulled around in the family's library, bathing in sunlight and books._

_"All black, always black. Everything, his hair, his clothes..." her brother criticized. "He looks like a tall, talking beakless raven if you ask me."_

_"I'd say Sebastian's all crow," she debated, casually scrawling down a passage she wanted to memorize for later._

_Edward glanced up from his novel once more, brow arched. "Raven... a crow ...what's the difference?"_

_"There is a real difference, dear brother," she said confidently. "Sebastian's not holy enough to be a raven. Ravens are dignified companions to the ancient gods— but mostly a metaphor for the Angel of Death. That's not him. Crows, however, cannot abide silence for long. They scrounge, and are prone to stealing things even from their neighbors' own nests. Everything's a game to them and they enjoy playing tricks. Think about it, crows are practically parasites.”_

_"Hm. True."_

 

 

**.o0o.**

 

 

Upon the night of every full moon that follows, Elizabeth returns to this spot to bestow three white roses onto the youngest Phantomhive's gravestone.

And— the truth is— she's not waiting to see her husband's ghost as so many people in London have come to believe.

_"You do whatever you want, my dove, whenever you want it..."_

Her father says that a great deal lately, reassuring her that the grieving process does take its own time to settle. That the people of this town should stop accusing her of madness for coping this loss in her own way... especially if it's the one thing that's bound to help her move on.

But, is it a sin though? Is it not wicked to do _whatever_ she wants, and _however_ she wants to do it when Heaven is forever watching, keeping score of who's worthy and whose not?

Elizabeth figures she must look odd here, or even surreal, surrounded by these graves while dressed so elegantly, so modestly layered in blue satin. She’s like a sitting doll, too pure, too sweet-looking with her gentle green eyes that are said to shine like jewels, and her fair yellow curls that spill down her neck.

She is a fragile day bird sitting in a crow's nest.

And yet, such outer looks as hers can be quite deceiving. For Elizabeth Midford Phantomhive, the light of her father's life, the pride of her mother’s, and the joy of her brother’s— the little lady who attends all of the political balls in perfect style— comes here in secret, to meet another man by moonlight.

The real problem is, Elizabeth has started to say things, and believe in things in which normal proper English maidens should never speak of. She's started to feel another raw emotion besides her grieving. And although it feels good... she's sure that's in truth, equally bad.

Elizabeth knows he's here now. Somewhere, watching her.

She doesn't stand. She just remains kneeling there staring at Ciel's grave, unmoving, silent, and waits a bit longer.

He comes forward a minute later, towering over her from behind. But he doesn't comment on this. He doesn't have to.

 _Is this a sin, when Heaven is forever watching?_ She personally aches to ask him this, but then, those words get caught in her throat and she swallows them down to save them for another time yet.

She is somewhat cautious of him, after all, even though he’s not a complete stranger to her.

Because she guesses... no, she _assumes_ what could have happened to Ciel.

The rest of London ruled Ciel’s unfortunate death it as a suicide.

And certainly, Elizabeth has her reasons to consider otherwise. She shivers at the thought.

"... You should get home, Elizabeth," he suggests finally. “It’s cold tonight.”

"I know."

The stars are fading, true, but it's the memories that still linger.

 

 

**.o0o.**

 

 

_"If it wasn't you... I'm afraid it could've been me. That is... if I had to."_

_Sebastian gave her a dry look before she continued._

_"After all, it's always the butler...," a mournful smile tugged at her lips, "... or the wife."_

 

 

**.o0o.**

 

 

This night’s full moon looks a tad different. It glows with a reddish color, seemingly kissed by the sun’s last ray of heat.

"You once asked me if I hoped to have children one day," she suddenly reminds Sebastian.

"What of it?"

"Well, I decided. I don't think children would have solved anything."

That delicate left hand of hers slips easily down his sleeve to clutch around his own fingers, and he doesn't protest. He always just... _allows_ it to happen (the touching and the pulling).

She’ll slowly guide him along behind her, simply because she wants to. Then she may sidestep around the next row of headstones, with him parallel to her on the other side, and they hold their arms up all the way down the row, as if they're children playing a game and making imaginary bridges out of their limbs.

Thunder rolls in the distance, lighting strikes against the clouds. But she's not concerned about rain.

Once the headstones vanish between them, Elizabeth's body naturally sways closer to him again.

She leans in fully, tenderly, kissing the corner of his mouth.

 

 

**.o0o.**

 

 

This time around, he sees blue finger-shaped bruises already imprinted around the curve of her wrist before she can even share what just happened.

“What is this?”

Elizabeth bites her lower lip and quickly twists her arm out of his firm, suspicious grip. “I suppose you could say... that I was attacked. Two days ago.”

Also, she informs him the culprit was a man. A man drowning in wine and cigars, who had mistaken her for a street whore. “I was alone walking home after dark. The fool thought I was a courtesan, more specifically. We struggled for a moment or two. But I held my own and escaped with little difficulty. Honestly.”

Glaring down at the markings again, Sebastian openly considers how inviting she looked on a regular basis. Especially tonight, sauntering about in her classy black negligée.

Though, that’s hardly an excuse. Humans, they’re vile. They’re vermin.

(And what should one do with such vermin plaguing the streets of London? The solution is rather obvious to him.)

Consequently, precisely three days later, something peculiar catch’s Elizabeth’s eye during morning tea with her parents. She reads the chilling headline prominently stamped across the main page of her father's fanned-out newsletter:

 

_MAN’S MYSTERIOUS DEATH_

_IS IT THE WINE, OR IS LONDON CURSED BY BEASTS?!_

 

 

It was the man’s chosen identity picture that shocked her the most. It was him, that man. Her attacker’s face.

“Father?” she pipes up, almost excitedly.

“Hm, yes, love?”

“May I please see that front page for a moment? I won’t take long.”

“... Here you are, darling,” her father relents after briefly reassessing her unexpected surge of curiosity. Reaching out, he hands the newsletter over to her. “But don’t let your superstitions get the best of you. That’s what they all want, those mindless jesters who work at the post office. Some foolishness to talk about. They know a good ghost story sells swiftly these days.”

“Don’t worry, Father. A curse bestowed upon London? It’s nonsense, I’m certain. But if there’s been another murder, then surely the city’s going to take notice. Everybody is pretty much still troubled by the whole 'Jack the Ripper Case'.”

As she read on privately to herself, she soon learns that the man who had tried fucking her on a deserted street corner _was_ in fact, the delighted owner of three separate brothels set along the countryside. His bloody corpse had been found sprawled along the pavement leading up to _the_ cemetery, with one broken arm, a series of scratch marks lining his chest, and what’s worse, his skull was evidently bashed in against the stone wall. He had been, quite literally, mauled to death.

The last paragraph of the article even stated that the original photographs captured at the scene of the crime were _“too gruesome and disturbing”_ to release to the public.  

Elizabeth simply set the newsletter down near her father again and walked away, excusing herself for the afternoon.

She’s not that dull. She recognized the man's head photograph _immediately_ and, therefore, she determines given the circumstances, this was no random _accident._

But she says nothing more.

 

 

**.o0o.**

 

 

She slowly sweeps her hand through the long cool weeds, taking in the feel of it between her fingers before she pushes herself upwards, drawing her corset back up to her naked chest.

He's still lays there beside her, on his back, muscles flexed, resting on the bedding of disheveled clothing they've made just a short time ago.

Her head turns towards him, her messed yellow curls falling over her pale shoulder. "Why didn't you stop me? Us?"

He notes how she doesn't sound offended, or hurt. She’s just inquisitive. So he scoffs, “You didn't want it to stop."

 

 

**.o0o.**

 

 

Once more, their monthly full moon waxes into its highest position amongst the stars.

And Elizabeth does not go to the cemetery. Instead, her mother insists on snatching her aside to discuss the future over a fresh pot of tea.

Like two civilized, knowledgeable women, they talk about the lack of ideal spouses and conceivable grandchildren.

 

 

**.o0o.**

 

 

Sebastian is the one who has done all the waiting tonight, and sharply rounds the corner of the main Gothic tomb placed at the centered focal-point in the cemetery; he appears quickly, yet smoothly, just like a black bird flitting out of the shadows.

"You didn't come last month."

These words, surprisingly, almost come out as an insult and that’s how Elizabeth ears it too. There’s also a newfound rigidness to his usual fluid posture.

The Crow stares down the Dove. _How dare you,_ his eyes accuse her _. Who do you think I am, really?_

She offers him a small apologetic smile. "Perhaps I just wanted to see if you'd care."

"Really? There's not anything else?"

She sighs straight through her teeth, her own gaze hardening to steel and daggers. Stubbornly, the Dove does not flee the Crow’s talons. She will not just _give_ him the pleasure of knowing he can chase her off. "It's Count Alexander H. Adam Silas. He is why."

"A new friend of yours?"

"New betrothed, actually," she corrects him, not missing a beat. "The family elders have already agreed on all the arrangements. I am to meet with him tomorrow."

"And they settled on that without your consent?"

"No, I complied. Because it's just... it’s just how things work, Sebastian. You should know that. And, really, I can understand why Father and Mother are a little worried. Maybe it is better for me to have a living husband rather than to be uncared for and unwedded at all."

She's merely adding a second husband to the picture. No need to fret about it. Things won't be so different than they were with Ciel. _Right?_ Would she rather live the rest of her life utterly alone? .. _.Surely not._ She’s come to admit that despite her unending loyalty to the Phantomhive name, she wants to remember love, and closure. To be cherished and to be touched and feel secured.

"Refuse him," he demands darkly.

"Why?" she snaps back.

"Because I was getting close," he replies, although it sounds more like he's answering himself than her. "I was so close. You were almost mine."

She pursed her lips. She knows something’s changed.

With no Ciel to serve and no Ciel to control him, Sebastian's gone feral. Aggressive, and growing possessive, straining to stay tethered to this world for as long as he can, and he's out on the hunt again.

"Sebastian... I will _not_ be chosen by you. If I want it, I will choose to stay _with_ you."

 

 

**.o0o.**

 

 

He truly manages to startle her this night after he steps on a fallen tree branch. The menacing _snapping_ noise cuts through the silence.

Elizabeth looks up from Ciel's gravestone, turns around, sees him, then actually backs away from him on sheer instinct. She paces three more steps to the side as he moves in her direction, strictly focused. His breathing is rugged and it has a strange monstrous echo to it, like it's flowing and rippling all around her, from the East to West.

His eyes shift, gleaming a piercing red hue and they stand out perfectly against the dark.

As he continues to narrow in, now deflecting her every chance to run... his claws begin grazing across her cheek, then down her neck; and Elizabeth feels the warm, _wet_ , iron substance painting her skin. He smells like a fresh slaughter, raw from battle, and reeks of murder. Soon, before she even asks, Alexander's familiar brooch (the silver one that has his family crest engraved on it) falls from Sebastian’s grasp and it taps against her foot when it reaches the ground.

 _"I want your soul...,"_ he says, before it turns into a hissing snarl. _"... only me... keep me, precious dove."_

The Dove visibly shudders in the Crow's clutches now—

but she doesn't leave, she doesn't flutter off.

As calmly as she can manage, she peers back up at him through her lashes.

Perhaps, she wouldn't be getting married again after all.


End file.
